


Reach Out of Your Grave and Take My Hand

by TK_DuVeraun



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Adrestia as the Wen sect, Angst, Cultivation AU, Don't Get Excited, GOOD LORD THE PINING, He Got Better, M/M, MDZS/CQL/The Untamed Crossover, No TWSITD, No knowledge of MDZS et all required, Past Character Death, Pining, it's sylvain, just buckle up, look this is already a mess, oh boy, pretty sword boys, sorry edelgard i love you but someone had to take the fall, this is a straight up plot-rip off
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24379294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TK_DuVeraun/pseuds/TK_DuVeraun
Summary: Sylvain was dead. He very clearly remembered dying. He even almost deserved it, for once. Well, he deserved it after he obliterated the army they massed against him for no reason. Where was he? Oh right,alive againand accidentally face-to-face with his long-time rival Felix Hugo Fraldarius.Oops.Hey guys, let's just consider this a plot rip of The Untamed with some Sylvix flavoring.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Reach Out of Your Grave and Take My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> So if you don't know what anything in the first tag means, if cultivation just means growing plants or you think you're bad at following complex plots, DO NOT WORRY. Everything you need to know is included, those tags are just so that people who know what that means can get excited.
> 
> Well, a fife is a kind of flute from medieval Europe. Otherwise, go nuts.

So, dying sucked. None the least of which because he’d made the decision himself rather than let  _ them _ win. The sheer irony of it all wasn’t lost on him, either. Yes, Edelgard had become a despot obsessed with obliterating the nomadic Seirosian sect down to the last memory regardless of who got in the way. Yes, Edelgard needed to go. Sylvain sacrificed so much to make it happen, sticking more than one foot in the grave. But then, of course, it wasn’t the harnessing of all that was sharp and painful into necromancy that made him the villain of the cultivation world. No, it was for saving the lives of a handful of starving, torture-weakened Adrestians.

None of which explained his current, non-dead predicament. 

See, there had been a siege of the little alcove he’d made livable in Aillel, everyone he’d cared about had been slaughtered and he’d had his back against the wall. And Sylvain knew enough about ghosts and spirits and fierce corpses to be absolutely, completely sure he didn’t want anyone bringing him back. He’d joined his spirit to the Stygian Lion Amulet and then shattered it. Sure, he was fairly certain that would cut him out of the cycle of reincarnation, but better than being used to kill more people he never wanted to harm or baselessly slandered for it.

Which is why it was just further salt in the wound that in his non-dead state, he was kicked and told, “Who cares what you think you own? You’re just a useless son of Gautier!”

First of all, since when had ‘son of Gautier’ translated to  _ bastard, _ which was clearly what the ass meant. During his life -- the first one -- it had meant philanderer, which was already wrong as his virgin, chronically dry dick would attest. Second, well, that was it, really. Who were all of these women he was supposedly fucking? For all of his flirting, he’d never gotten so much as a kiss, unless they were renaming all sorts of things and kiss now meant ‘drink thrown in your face.’

So dying sucked and being shoved into a new body and then beat by a thug and his cronies sucked more. Well, not objectively, but in the moment it was certainly the more unpleasant of the two. Once his room was trashed and he was alone, Sylvain took stock of his situation. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and admired the sigil he’d woken splayed across. It was drawn in blood because of course it was. After tilting his head and covering up the errors with scraps of paper that had been thrown at him, Sylvain was able to make out the magical array. Okay, that he was currently alive again helped him figure out, but honestly with how ham-fistedly it had been drawn, he was shocked that it worked.

Well, sort of worked. The spell was supposed to summon a powerful, and notably  _ evil _ spirit into the body of the caster for the low-low price of his own soul. The magic of harnessing evil and resentment wasn’t particularly well-studied, being taboo and all, but everything Sylvain knew said that his reputation of being evil shouldn’t have been good enough for the spell. Which meant that the caster had both needed to call him  _ by name _ and somehow have enough magical power to summon the scattered pieces of Sylvain’s spirit. Which, given his present circumstances, didn’t seem likely.

Even unbound cultivators like Jeralt the Bladebreaker had more money than they could reasonably spend in a single, normal human, lifetime. People were desperate for spirit removal and monster slaying. If this body had enough magical power to piece Sylvain’s spirit back together, he wouldn’t have  _ needed _ Sylvain’s spirit. It was a bit of a magical catch 22, really, but there he was. A biting pain in his arm brought his thoughts away from wistful magical theory and back to the realm of flesh wounds. Sylvain rolled back his sleeve and there it was. Three nasty, unhealable gashes that would torment him until he did whatever the body wanted. Usually it was just murder, which, given his reputation, shouldn’t have been a problem, but, as he’d lamented for most of his adult life, his reputation had very little to do with himself as a person. 

But Sylvain  _ had _ fought in a war, so three more murders couldn’t hurt his already-ruined chances of a decent next-reincarnation. Target one was probably thick-ankle, McFlatfoot. The jilted madam was undoubtedly number two. Or cuckolded husband. Sylvain had enough trouble figuring out who hated him and why. Figuring it out for a stranger wasn’t great.

Since he wasn’t naive enough to think this body would be allowed in something as vaunted as a bathhouse, Sylvain pulled water from the well and gave himself as much of a wash as he could. His face was caked with thick makeup which, gross. Did this body not care about his pores? Once the makeup and dirt settled to the bottom of the basin, Sylvain caught his reflection in the water… and immediately swore as colorfully as he could, which was very. Apparently, his bully had been  _ literal. _ Sylvain was in the body of his own half-brother.

He pulled on his cheeks. Not that he recognized this poor sap, but the Gautier red hair was distinct from the other families in Fodlan. Just a bit darker, just a tad more unruly. Sylvain went back to his room and dug through the debris until he found a talisman paper. It had already been written on, but that was easy-enough to fix. He inscribed the new design on the paper and stuck it on his own forehead. A weight settled on his shoulders as his hair straightened and smoothed. Was it cheating? Yes, but what was one more taboo to throw on the pile?

When Sylvain left his room, he was more presentable than his body had ever been on its own and twice as curious. It seemed that the entire village was gathered around the reception hall, which was certainly unusual. He wove through the crowd and was rewarded for his curiosity. Sitting in two perfect rows were adorable disciples from the Fraldarius Sect. Their navy robes and tight headbands were a dead giveaway. Dead. Sylvain snickered.

One of the boys was speaking. He had a calm countenance that Sylvain was surprised had survived the harsh training. He also had a griffon embroidered over his breast. Only blooded members of the Fraldarius family could wear the griffon on their robes. But he didn’t look anything like either Glenn or Felix. Given that Sylvain was currently in the body of his own half-brother and only slightly older than he was at the time he died -- either his own father was making bastards with one foot in the grave and this was a grandkid, unlikely, or Felix’s uncle had found a woman he could tolerate long enough to procreate, even less likely.

Something about those three thousand rules made it  _ shockingly _ difficult for Fraldariuses to find partners. Sylvain remembered once teasing that Felix would never be married, but in hindsight that might have been meaner than intended. Oh well, add another regret to the pile. Regardless of his own woes, the Fraldarius juniors were there (there being Whitton Family Home, as the madam said) to deal with a recent rash of walking corpses.

Sylvain eyed the villagers. They  _ were _ a little on the thin side. Maybe they’d started skipping out on the ancestral offerings to feed themselves. A mistake they wouldn’t be making again, hopefully. Blah blah, please stay out of the back garden until sunrise, ignore any sounds, don’t touch any of the cultivation instruments. Though since none of the boys seemed to be carrying the typical Fraldarius lyre, Sylvain’s interest was piqued. Well, it wasn’t as if he could leave until he dealt with his cursed scars anyway.

Conveniently, Sylvain’s room was attached to the back garden, so he lounged in the open doorway and watched the juniors prepare. He’d never done something like this, himself. Too busy with the war and then being in exile and worse. He was curious for just as long as it took the children to set up a series of painted flags. He snatched one off its pole and examined the painting. It was a familiar sigil. One  _ he’d _ designed, since all of the existing ones required being painted on a living, breathing, preferably cultivating, human. So Sylvain was the bane of existence, but his discoveries and advances in cultivation were fine. He snorted and threw the flag at the junior cultivator that came to fix the array. The flags would summon any nearby evil spirits, wandering corpses included.

Madam Whitton chose that moment to appear from the main building. She stormed up to him, walking just this side of too fast to be polite. She sneered at Sylvain. “Don’t you dare show your face again. You’re shaming us in front of a prominent sect!” With a complete change of face, she turned to the Fraldarius boys. “This is my nephew, Karsten Whitton. He trained with one of the major sects for a few years after the… unpleasantness, but sadly his mind is just not up to it.” She gestured to her head in a way that meant Karsten was mentally ill, at least by her approximation. Sylvian assumed she said that about anyone she didn’t like.

The Fraldarius juniors gave her some placating words before shooing her from the back garden. Really, the strangest thing wasn’t being alive again, it was that his father had apparently been so desperate for an heir that he brought in a bastard. Though, he mused, a bastard was probably better than an abomination or whatever they were calling Sylvain these days. He watched the baby cultivators work through his window. Once night had fallen, they arranged themselves on the rooftops, all holding flags. Really, they were one of his best inventions. Who was the idiot that decided lures needed live bait?

He felt it before he heard it, which usually wasn’t a good thing, but he wasn’t usually leashed with -- he checked -- two remaining cursed scars. Someone was dead, which would explain the screaming. And it was Thickankle McFlatfoot, which was why the screaming was coming closer. Once the Fraldarius juniors hopped down the roof, Sylvain followed in behind them. Maybe none of them had a lyre, but their swords were good enough for normal humans.

“Madam Whitton, please. He was in his quarters the entire time, we could see him from the window. He had no opportunity to harm your son.” Once again, it was the blooded Fraldarius that spoke. The more that came out of his mouth, the more Sylvain was  _ certain _ that the headband was a fucking lie. 

One of the other boys tugged on his sleeve. “Hector, look. His skin is completely shrivelled, like all of his vitality was sucked out.”

Sylvain almost burst into laughter as the boys examined the body. They were just like children prodding it with sticks as they nudged the now-deceased Whitton heir with the end of their sword sheaths. Then their investigation actually came to fruition as one of their lure flags peeked out of the corpse’s robes.

Sylvain clicked his tongue and then pulled the flag up, handing it to Hector. “Looks like he wasn’t satisfied with stealing my talismans. Shame,” he said without a hint of remorse.

“You! You planted that on him!” Madam Whitton shouted.

Sylvain held both palms face up and shrugged.

“Madam, if your nephew had taken it, he would be the one to have died. These flags lure evil spirits. We were drawing them to the back garden so that we could eradicate the problem at once.” Poor Hector was starting to sweat. Whatever had siphoned the bully’s life away was far more sophisticated than a walking corpse.

“You’re nothing but stupid children! You couldn’t even save my son!” Madam Whitten raised her hand to slap Hector across the face, but Sylvain stopped her with a dab of spiritual energy. She dropped her hand as if it had been burned. “Jerome! Jerome, get out here right now!”

The madam’s husband walked slowly into the garden, dragging his feet with every step. Sylvain honestly didn’t blame him with that harpy for a wife. Well, up to the point that he tried to strangle her, at which point, he jumped to the defense of his ‘aunt.’ Was it counterproductive to removing his curse? Probably, but he didn’t end up the great villain of the world by letting (mostly) innocent people die. The moment he got his hands on his ‘uncle’ Sylvain realized the problem. The man hadn’t hit his limit, he was already dead, his body possessed by, hopefully, the same malignance that killed his son.

The Fraldarius juniors quickly bound the man in golden, spirit rope, though they flinched as the body continued to struggle. Hector was the only one brave enough to approach and he quickly reached the same conclusion as Sylvain. “Madam Whitton, your husband didn’t mean to attack you. He’s already passed.”

Sylvain glanced at the corpse on the ground and then turned back to Jerome Whitton’s body. Using a folded fan he’d stolen (from whom didn’t matter), he pushed back both of the man’s sleeves. “Hmm, these arms don’t really seem to belong to the same man.”

One was thick with muscle and bulging veins while the other was soft and flabby, though tanned from plenty of work outdoors. Sylvain ran his hand over his cursed arm and was somewhat saddened that only one wound remained. He’d wanted to like Jerome for a whole five seconds there.

Hector went back to the first body and noticed the empty sleeve before standing again. “It must be the left arm. It replaces the victim’s and sucks all of its life energy.”

Sylvain nodded, tapping his chin with the folded fan. “But why?”

The juniors turned to each other in quick conference as if Sylvain was their lecturer and honestly he felt a small thrill at the thought of how furious Rodrigue would be. Eventually, Hector spoke. “It’s trying to find its own body, so it’s trying whichever one it can reach.”

“Ah, but it’s just an arm? How can it find a body?” Sylvain asked.

“It senses their spiritual energy?”

Sylvain laughed. “Yes, precisely, and you young cultivators are just  _ brimming _ with yang energy, so I suggest you all take a step back.”

As one, they backed up three large steps. Then Hector shoved his hand into his opposite sleeve. “I’m going to send the flare.”

“Oh, no, no, that’s not-” But Sylvain’s protests were ignored and the flare shot high into the sky, lighting the night with a glowing griffon. Fuck. Playing with these juniors was fun, but he ran the risk of running into… people… if any of their elders swept in to save the day. Welp. It seemed he was going to have to finish dealing with his curse, save these children and get far, far away before the signal was answered.

Before he could decide on the next course of action, the last wound on his arm knit together. Sylvain leapt up and back, only narrowly avoiding a swipe from the arm, which now had a hold of Madam Whitton. Welp, he was free to go if he didn’t mind the juniors dying, which he very much did. He sighed. His heart was a real bastard. He let the juniors draw their swords and fight against the arm while he stepped back into the shadows to do some real work. He doubted the Whittons had a fife he could nick, so whistling would have to do.

After just a few notes, the corpses of Jerome Whitton and his son rose with stiff joints. At least there was plenty of resentment lingering in the air to use. Sylvain snapped his fingers to get their attention. “Go take care of auntie, why don’t you?”

As the corpses sprang into action, Sylvain ducked deeper into the shadows and started looking for a way out. Surely the kids would be able to figure it out from here.  _ Surely, _ one of them would have a spirit-capture pouch for once it was subdued. But he wouldn’t leave entirely until-

Fuck.

Several sharp, though melodic, notes filled the back garden. There was just the lightest silver echo, signalling that they did, indeed, come from lyre built into a great shield. The first-class spiritual weapon Aegis. Sylvain didn’t stick around to see its bearer. He’d be back to second death in no time if that happened.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I am going to very straightforward about this: if you think this plot is REALLY COOL and SUPER INTERESTING, _please remember that I didn't come up with it_. Cultivation as a setting is just a _thing _that exists like the bog-standard western fantasy setting and this plot in particular comes at you direct from Chinese BL novel + censored adaptations.__
> 
> _  
> _My preferred version of the story is the TV Drama, known in English as[The Untamed which is on Netflix or free to watch from the original publisher on youtube here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BfKhREVFLkQ&t=1s) I can't vouch for the subtitles on the youtube version bc I watched on netflix but here you go._  
>  _
> 
> _  
> _You can watch the[cartoon version direct from its legal publisher (with English subtitles) on youtube here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m346FShZ5Dc). (Incomplete)_  
>  _
> 
> _  
> _So please don't compliment me on the story unless you've consumed the original and like my changes._  
>  _
> 
> _  
> _ANYWAY, Thanks for reading. This is probably going to be way longer than I want it to be, but there won't be any flashbacks, you'll have to fill that in for yourself. Since hits are broken, please leave me a comment to show your love or hit me up on my twitter[@duveraun](https://twitter.com/duveraun)._  
>  _


End file.
